


beloved to me is every mountain and peak

by Reyavie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: but really no old gods wandering around whatsoever, i don't even, just not in the way most people are protective, protective gods are protective, this is what happens when you overthing myths in pieces of fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: the touch of snow, the burn of ice and the song of wolves.Winterfell was born where Winter dwelled. Where the snow fell. And it seemed that every time a Stark walked away from the snow, it fell before its time.Or why the Old Gods could not escape their territories.





	beloved to me is every mountain and peak

Arya remembers this lady from Winterfell.

Oddly, not her name.

The majority of their group shed their heavier clothes as soon as the sun comes up. The black-haired woman does not bother. Pelts upon pelts, leather and comfortable fur, a myriad of grey in the midst of more gentle colors. It is the reason why Arya first notices her. She is lack of color, a point of nature; from her leather armor, to her wooden bow, to the dagger that is carved bone and stone, always on the lady’s hand when it is time to eat.

She has black hair. Like Jon. Like father.

Arya stands by the older woman ( _older than her, at least, older than his father, maybe, than her mother, than all of their group_ , the girl suspects, even though she does not look like it) whenever possible. Her heart is still heavy with the loss of Nymeria and Mycah and, while the presence of the woman does not help, it does keep her steady. One foot after the other in the direction of the unknown, the whisper of grass slowly replacing the gentle crunch of fallen snow.

_Until there is no more snow._

And the Lady is no longer by her side.

The black-haired woman has stopped right at the edge of the white brand upon the floor. Her fingers crisped into a fist by her side, sharp teeth gnashing, she gazes at the frozen water fading beneath her feet. As if it has personally offended her somehow.

Grey eyes are like hers, angry and disappointed.

(Grey eyes are just like hers, a mirror of silver on silver).

Before she can speak, the woman is upon her. “You have no claws yet,” the lady states, tugging her shirt impatiently here and there like her mother would have done. Despairingly as she touches the thin arms which have little strength or grace. “You have no furs, no weapons and your father has exchanged the savagery of wolves for the loyalty of dogs. How can allow you to bypass this border? How can I let you be dragged to where I can’t follow?”

Close as she is, Arya still cannot memorize the traces of her face. She thinks the woman has an angular shin, a pointy nose, small on her long face, a wide forehead. She smells sweat, the forest and wild flowers. There is dust upon her skin and mud staining her worn clothing. Arya sees all and reminds herself to remember only to have the knowledge ripped from her as soon as the thought passes.

No one else seems to notice them.

“It happened before, girl, with one just as you,” the words continue sad, smooth, a melody without song. “I told him not to send any of them away. The eagles do not like wolves. I could keep them close, protected, mine, you’re all mine. And now, you’re walking far as well. I do not like this.”

The woman rests her hands on Arya’s shoulders. It is a heavy weight. Like a shackle, it tightens enough for her blood to race against it.

“I should steal you.”

Arya shakes her head without knowing why. The grey eyes are comforting, are Jon’s, are father’s, but there is something sharper in the Lady that had never existed in her loved ones; something that Nymeria could have had in time. A sharpness that is almost cruelty. It is the same feeling she had when listening to old Nan’s stories, once upon a time on a dark corner of the kitchen while her brothers’ arms protected her from all evil. It is the same feeling that accompanied long nights when the snow fell and the winds shattered glass and stone alike.

“But I won’t,” the Lady continues (exhaling deep, exhaling the savagery away, tugging herself out of whatever she is and into a simile of a human face). Her hold relaxes lowly. Becomes a touch comforting before all contact is ceased. Immediately. No weakness, no comfort, nothing had taken place.

The edge of the snow melts underneath her feet.

“Take this and throw it onto the sea,” she instructs lowly, taking her hand in his (it is cold, icy cold, even in the sunny day) and smuggling something between her fingers. “Where you can hear the seagulls. Tell it you’re mine. Tell it of your sister and your brothers and that I…”

The woman says nothing else and her eyes ( _hers, his, his_ ) are intense.

“Go. Keep to your father.”

True to her word, she stays behind and Arya keeps looking back, feeling like she is abandoning her home yet again.

Her wolf yet again.

Her family yet again.

* * *

Arya remembers the woman’s words once she arrives at King’s Landing. Everything is different then, even her father (especially her father), even her sister. The warmth chokes her, the clothes do not protect her, there are no claws, there is no Nymeria. There are no Gods. Arya feels herself wither and die on suffocating heat.

The bone in her hand is small. Sharp. Like the point of a spear.

“I belong to the north,” she murmurs. The waves are not something she is fond of but they were the first thing she searched for once within the city walls. Seagulls scream above her head. “I want to go home. I belong to the snow and mountains not here.” Her finger tugs on the sharp point. It is sharp enough to break skin. Almost. The skin stains red when she presses further. “I am a wolf.” That’s not enough, that’s not enough, she belonged to her, the woman with no name who could not walk beyond the snow, the woman with black hair and silver eyes covered in fur, leather and strength made corporeal form.

Her lips open.

“I belong to Skadi.”

The skin breaks beneath the woman’s gift, touches flesh, stains red. In the surprise, Arya releases the small bone with its unasked offering onto the salty waves.

“I know. You look like her.”

A man stands on a boat in front of her. A small boat. It is almost impossibly frail against the movement of the water on the rocky slope. Grey is its paint, grey decorating planks and the sole seat, grey the small marine creature drawn carefully across the hull. The man standing inside it is tall, far taller than her, wide shoulders under bronze immaculate skin. His clothes are fine, beautiful works of art peppered with salt and water. If she stares hard enough, there seems to be a thin band of silver (of light) upon his head, so thin, almost invisible.

He smiles up at her. Thin and dry, it softens his ageless face and reminds her so much of her father, Arya almost runs back, runs to the Tower to make sure he is still there among liars and thieves.

The boat moves underneath his feet, rocking gently with the waves as if it, too, does not wish to disturb him.

“You are ours.”

The man does not touch her. He does not hug her or come near or stands by her side, tall and unimaginably strong in a way she cannot define. He says nothing else. Inexplicably, Arya does not need him to. When she blinks, he is not even there anymore, fading into the sea foam as if nothing more than an illusion.

But she is theirs.

Eddard finds her later that night, covered in salt and sand, sleeping deeply for the first time since their arrival.

He does not see the figure standing guard by her bed, bloodied arrowhead between salt-covered fingers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the lady is Skadi, in this piece, the actual personification of winter. The Lord is Njord, her husband, God of the sea.
> 
> I guess I could not ignore the parallels between the old Gods present in Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire and the Norse mythology. Or I could not help but draw parallels. Basically, a friend was lovely enough to brainstorm with me over how the old gods could work in this universe and this snowballed into something that I am aware is odd. Quite frankly, my writer’s block is so bad right now, the mere action of writing something, confusing or not, made me happier. So, all this to say, I hope someone likes the idea because I think I’ll have to keep going.


End file.
